


Sight for Sore Eyes

by Anonymous



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Animal Transformation, Bestiality, Blind Character, Blind Dean Winchester, Breeding Kink, John Winchester's A+ Parenting, Kink Meme, Know You Anywhere, M/M, Other, Size Difference, Skinwalker Castiel (Supernatural)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-24
Updated: 2019-09-07
Packaged: 2020-09-25 18:56:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,222
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20376481
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: From an SPN Kink Meme prompt (originally here: https://spnkink-meme.livejournal.com/151440.html?thread=46676624#t46676624) : When Dean was a young child he went blind... John, not wanting him to get hurt, decides that Dean needs to be raised by someone else...he isn't raised in the hunting world, and doesn't remember it from when he was a small child anyway.So Dean is an adult and he has a seeing eye dog that turns out to be a skinwalker. The Skin walker...was originally meant to infiltrate a family then Kill them later on, but became attached to Dean and decided not to hurt him. John ends up working a case, and see's Dean (he's been secretly keeping tabs on him) and realizes that the Dog isn't what it seems, and decides to hunt the creature down. Dean, on the other hand, thinks he's being stalked and is freaking out. One night, John breaks into Deans home while he is sleeping in order to kill the skinwalker. Wanting to protect his human, the skinwalker shifts into his human form ....In the end, I want Dean and the Skinwalker to fall in love with eachother and for there to be hot sex where Dean is knotted (But PLEASE, not while the skinwalker is in his dog form!!!)





	1. Chapter 1

When Dean snaps into wakefulness, all he can see is darkness. Of course: because he is blind. And because it is nighttime—he can tell by the coolness of the air, by the faint scent of night-blooming herbs that Pastor Jim grows outside the rectory. Dean stares toward where he knows the window is, but all he can sense is a faint, shifting grey shadow. The doctors say there shouldn’t even be that; this may years after the fire, what little is left of his vision should have stabilized. But Dean knows what he sees.

He sighs and drops back against his pillow, lets his hand skim over the rumpled sheets. He hears nothing but the breeze in the old trees outside the rectory. So what woke him?

“Sam?” Dean calls. “You there, Sammy?”

There’s no response, naturally. Sam left ages ago. Dean had lain in bed and listened to the sound of Sam’s old car pulling away from the church, taking Sam back to the local land-grant college, back to his work-study job and his pretty girlfriend. That sounds more bitter than Dean means it to be. He doesn’t begrudge Sam either of those things. He’s pretty sure he’d never make it as a college boy, even if he had 20/20 vision. And as for the girlfriend…well, it's not like they're dating or anything. Dean likes to think of Sam as his _fuckbuddy_. He likes the raunchiness of the word. Blind people don’t have fuckbuddies, and Dean likes to think he is not your regular blind person.

Every few months, Pastor Jim will have an overnight retreat or a late parish council meeting or, like this time, a research trip. Dean will give Sam a call so Sam can lie to his girlfriend and drive to the rectory to pound Dean into the mattress for a few hours, turn him inside out, make him moan filthy things into his pillow. And then, itches scratched, desires sated, they’ll kiss and part ways until the next time. Sam likes it that way, because of his girlfriend. Anyway, he’s already estranged from his family, if they found out… Dean just likes having a secret. When you’re the blind kid that the local pastor took in out of the goodness of his heart—well, the whole town of Blue Earth, Minnesota feels like they know everything there is to know about Dean Winchester, past, present, and future. Dean stretches against the cool sheets, aching pleasantly (Sam is not small, and it is a point of pride that Dean takes him balls deep every time). He can feel a smug, satisfied smile growing as he imagines how the altar guild would react if they really knew everything there was to know about him.

It almost hadn’t happened, tonight’s rendezvous with Sammy. Someone had broken into the rectory office a few days ago—nothing stolen, but the lock picked expertly and the door left open like a warning. Last week, there had been multiple sightings of an unfamiliar dark car in and around the church property, the sort of thing that caused quite a stir in boring Blue Earth. Dean himself had the eeriest feeling for days now that there was someone watching, though of course he had no way to confirm that. Pastor Jim had nearly cancelled his trip three times, and the last time, Dean had actually hesitated to argue with him. He’s used to being looked at by people he can’t see—a young guy with a white cane and a seeing-eye dog is bound to generate some curiosity—but the past few days that stranger’s gaze has felt different: _interested_, not just inquisitive. Personal. Like someone was looking for him, not just at him. But then he’d thought about the voracious way Sam would kiss him, about how good it would feel to get his ankles on Sam’s broad shoulders and let Sam slide home, about how loud they could be with the whole rectory to themselves. That’s how Dean had come to be standing on the porch, one hand patting his seeing-eye dog, the other waving Pastor Jim off. “Don’t worry,” he’d called, “Cas and I know the drill: no wild exorcisms, no drinking the Communion wine. What’s the worst that could happen?” 

Cas. Maybe that’s what woke him. Usually, his seeing-eye dog is perfectly, almost supernaturally well-behaved. In all the years since Pastor Jim took him in, Cas has never been known to knock things over, chew on shoes, climb on the furniture uninvited. Pastor Jim had put “lost dog” notices in the parish bulletin for six months after Cas had turned up in the yard during a rainstorm because he was convinced that any dog so well-trained must be someone’s beloved pet. But there had never been a breath of information about anyone missing a freakishly intelligent black-coated dog with blue husky eyes. When Dean had come home from the state boarding school for the blind for summer vacation that year, Cas had been waiting on the porch. He’d followed Dean into the rectory and, after that, he was rarely more than an arm’s length away. He’d only been banished from the room when Sam arrived. (“Don’t like him looking at us. While we. Y’know,” Sam had said and Dean had felt the heat of a blush moving over his skin). 

It seems silly, but Dean gets the distinct feeling that Cas doesn’t—well, doesn’t entirely approve of Sam. And he wouldn’t put it past Cas to get into some kind of trouble while he and Sam were otherwise occupied, just to show his displeasure. Cas is almost human like that. Dean stretches again. He fumbles for a pair of boxers and tries to remember Sam’s class schedule. He could do with some more of what they’d had tonight and, after all, Pastor Jim won’t be back until Wednesday.

“Cas?” he calls, trailing his fingers along the wall until he comes to the bedroom door. No wonder he’s unsettled. Cas always sleeps at the foot of his bed. “C’mon, boy. Coast is clear.”

When he opens the door, Dean can hear something. It is not the sound that woke him. It is a deep, harsh sound he has almost never heard, but he’d know it anywhere: mild-mannered, well-behaved Castiel is _growling_. Almost as soon as he registers it, Dean becomes aware of something else. A breeze from down the hallway. He has lived at the rectory since he was eight, since four years after the accident that killed his mother and his brother and stole his sight. Dean knows every inch of the place by touch and smell and there should not be a breeze coming from that direction. 

“Cas!”

There’s a crash, shockingly loud in the quiet summer night. Glass breaking.

There are thirteen steps from the second floor of the rectory down to the main hallway, and Dean doesn’t even realize he’s counted them until he reaches the bottom without stumbling. He has to…he should—Dean realizes he doesn’t know what to do next. Go outside? Into the Midwestern night, where anything could be waiting under Pastor Jim’s overgrown herbiary? Or stay inside, in the old rectory attached to the old church, both full of shadowy niches that conceal dangers Dean can’t see? Before he can decide, Dean hears the scramble of paws on the old wooden floor and then Cas’s thick rough coat brushes against his bare knee. 

“Cas. Good boy, good boy, Cas…” Dean realizes he’s whispering, flattening himself against the staircase even as he runs his hand through Cas’s fur. Just Cas’s familiar smell calms him. He can hear footsteps: boots crunching through the glass upstairs. Someone trying to be quiet. Not trying very hard.

A door crashes open upstairs. Dean can feel panic bubbling up inside him, burning from his stomach to his throat like acid. He forces himself to keep it at bay: for as long as he can remember, he has been at a disadvantage compared to others. Every action, every day, is the result of careful planning. This can be no different. To get to the telephone in the kitchen, he’ll have to run the length of the hallway, exposed to anyone on the second floor. But if there’s another phone in the rectory office, just on the other side of the church. Dean can find that one in the dark: after all, he spends several hours every day answering it, triaging tasks for Pastor Jim, organizing parish business. Call the cops on the way out of the house, hide under the tree cover in the garden until they get here. He’s barefoot, but it is summertime and whoever is upstairs can’t monitor all the windows at once… 

Just as Dean is gathering himself for a headlong dash across the open hall to the door that connects with the church, he feels Cas stiffen beside him. Stiffen and then shiver in a way that Dean has never felt before. He clutches at a handful of fur but it sort of _melts_ out of his hands. 

“Cas?!” Dean knows he should stay quiet, but can’t help the horrified croak. “Castiel?” The fur is sort of _liquefying_ in his fingers, going smooth, and then rough again, soft—skin? What? A hand grips his wrist and Dean is so shocked he shouts. 

“Shut up!” The voice is low and harsh and right next to him. Are there two intruders? How can there be? Cas was right next to him just a second ago…Dean stumbles away but the person, the stranger, follows like he can read Dean’s mind. Footsteps on the stairs. Dean reaches for the door that leads from the rectory to the church. The stranger does the same. Their fingers tangle for a split second, both trying to undo the old latch. There is the smell of incense and the chill of marble. “You know where to go,” the stranger’s voice says, and suddenly, Dean does. Pastor Jim keeps an office for parish business, but also a separate study for his research. It is half underground, at the end of the long hallway, and it has only one entrance: a heavily barred door. Dean is nearly there, mindlessly tapping each pew as he passes to keep track of where he is, before he realizes that he is alone. The stranger hasn’t followed him. In fact—if the sounds are anything to go by—the intruders have met each other in the rectory hallway and it is possible that only one will emerge alive.

Dean closes and bars Pastor Jim’s research office. He presses his ear against the heavy door, trying to listen for whatever is happening elsewhere in the building. As his heartbeats begins to return to normal he starts to second-guess himself. Perhaps he should have turned the other way, gone to the office, called the cops as he’d originally planned. After all, there’s no telephone connection here. Pastor Jim only uses it for—Dean’s racing thoughts screech to a halt. Paster Jim only uses this space for his research into the occult. That is an aspect of his life that he doesn’t advertise, for obvious reasons. Even Dean doesn’t know precisely what that research entails, and he’s lived with the pastor on and off for almost eighteen years. How had that stranger even known this space existed, never mind that it was the most secure location in the entire area?

There are weapons here. Pastor Jim calls them his plowshares—“better locked up here than out in the world, doing mischief,” he’d said when Dean had asked why a preacher needed so much firepower. A gun is no use to Dean Winchester, but a knife, if things get bad… Dean maneuvers his way toward where he thinks the weapons might be; he’s been in this space so rarely he doesn’t have a good mental map of it. He hesitates, imagining himself putting his hand square onto a razor-sharp blade. A deep breath—and there is a gentle knock on the door. Dean freezes.

“Dean?”

Dean knows that voice. The second intruder. The one who had known about this secret room. Dean holds his breath.

“Dean? It’s okay to come out now.” Of necessity, Dean is good at deciphering people’s expressions from their voices. This voice sounds tired and a little raw, like the few words it’s spoken are taxing its last reserves. 

“I scared him off. I don’t—I don’t think he’ll be back to bother you.”

Bother…me? Sure the intruder had just been a drifter, someone passing through, perhaps aware that Pastor Jim was out of town, hoping to steal from the offering plate? Nothing particular to do with Dean.

Dean creeps closer to the door, trying to figure out why he knows this voice. _You know where to go_. _It’s okay to come out now_. A handful of phrases, none very personal, and yet Dean feels like he must recognize the person who is peaking. But he doesn’t. Thanks to his telephone work in the rectory office, he would have said he could recognize the voice of almost anyone in Blue Earth—parishioners, suppliers, contractors, he even knows the local telemarketers by sound. But this voice is both new and achingly familiar.

“Or you can just stay inside, of course,” the voice continues. “I’ll just be out here if you need me.”

The person settles down on the other side of the door, letting out a a quick little huff of air that Dean only hears because he is pressed up against the solid old wooden door. But that sound, Dean knows. He would know it anywhere: on the porch swing, after he’s finished mowing the rectory lawn (a mathematically precise process involving counting paces); under the dining room table at the rectory, right after Pastor Jim says, “you’re not giving that dog people-food, are you, now, Dean?”; in bed at night after Sam has left and the door creaks open, pushed by a wet nose. Dean has heard that weary-but-contented sound before.

Dean touches the solid old door, fingers sensitive to the wood. He has to lick his dry lips before any sound will come out. “Who is it?” he asks, and then louder, “Who are you?”

“It’s—me. It’s me, Cas.”


	2. Chapter 2

When Cas snaps into wakefulness, all he can see is darkness. Of course: because Pastor Jim’s secret study has no windows and the last thing on their minds last night had been turning on the lights. He hadn’t really expected Dean to open the door. He had simply, viscerally needed to know his boy was all right; he had no thought beyond that when he’d settled down to guard the door. So he had answered truthfully when Dean had asked who he was. Dogs lead simple lives. Unlike humans, they have no talent for falsehoods. So Cas had answered each of Dean’s questions as they came. Yes, he was _that_ Cas. The guide dog who had shielded Dean’s steps for years. Yes, he was also a person—or, rather, able to take the form of a person, when it was useful. As it had been useful when his charge was being threatened. What was the nature of that threat? Well, that was a little more complicated. Cas had curled up on the cold hallway tile, missing the cushion of his fur, and tried to explain: humans were not meant to see demonfire. Most did not survive exposure. Those rare people who did—often children, for reasons no one understood—must be put out of their misery. That had been Cas’s task. What are guardian angels for? 

It had taken some years for Cas to locate Dean; John Winchester had seen to that. When at last he had reappeared, a ward of the state, enrolled in the school for the blind, fostered out to a local parish, there had been some doubt about whether it was the correct child. After all, he showed no particular signs of demonic influence. And how to confirm his identity, when Pastor Jim was keeping such a protective eye on him? Well, the good pastor was known to take in strays of all kinds. It had been relatively simple, in the grand scheme of things, to take on a new form and ingratiate himself in a household where a lonely boy needed something to love.

“Skinwalker?” Dean had repeated, dubiously, when Cas had tried to explain. “A human who can turn into a dog?”

“A being who can be dog or human. Or another animal,” Cas corrects. And then, like he can sense Dean’s doubt: “You felt me change,” Cas reminded him. He knows how Dean had learned, over the years, to trust the senses he had left.

“And that’s why…?” Dean had left the rest of the sentence unfinished: that’s why Cas had taken so quickly to the rigorous guide-dog training, that’s why vets always had trouble determining his age or his breed (improbably, husky Irish setter mutt was everyone's best guess), that’s why Cas seemed to know Dean’s human thoughts and intentions better than any dog possible could.

“The intruder?” Dean asked

“I think your father has had someone watching you—maybe just checking in from time to time. And they saw me for what I am. They thought I meant to harm you.”

“Do you?” Dean had asked. 

After so many years in dog form, humans confuse Castiel sometimes. Their distractions and subterfuges. But Dean never confuses him; Dean always says what he means and asks for what he needs. He is Cas’s favorite human.

“No. I was able to tell my superiors with some confidence that you are no threat. The demon fire did not touch you.”

Behind the wooden door, Dean snorts. “Tell that to my opthamologists. There are five of them.”

Cas thinks again. He has gone so many years without human language that he has forgotten how precise it is. “The demon fire did not touch your heart, not in any significant way.” This is true. He knows it because he has watched Dean grow. He knows how kind he is, how generous with everyone who calls the parish, looking for help or advice or a listening ear. He knows how brave he is, never hiding behind what others see as a disability. 

That is when Dean had opened the door. Brave, as Cas had always known he was. Cas had heard the heavy crossbar moving and had scrambled to his feet. In the dim light that filtered down from the stained glass, it was strange to see Dean from human height. He seems smaller, more vulnerable. His freckles were more noticeable. His cloudy green eyes are nearly level with Cas’s own. 

“Prove it,” Dean had said. “Tell me something only Cas could know. My Cas.” 

It was hard to think of something. The outlines of Dean’s life are well-known in the community—terrible fire, mother dead, abandoned by father, virtually blind, taken in by the old family friend who was pastor at Our Lady of Angels. And the private things, all the quiet secrets that a friendless boy might whisper to his dog? It seems cruel to remind Dean of them now. 

“You can touch me,” Cas had said. “Touch my face.” 

Dean had flinched. He’d forgotten that, forgotten that anyone remembered how he use to ask to do that, back when he was first learning how to live in a sighted world without sight. Even when Cas first knew him, he had almost stopped, recognizing that what the world might accept in a newly-disabled child would set him apart as he grew older. 

“That doesn’t mean anything,” Dean had announced, a stubborn set to his jaw that Cas would recognize in any form. “Lots of people do that. Blind people, anyway.” But he puts out his hand and lets Cas lay it against his cheek. Cas stands still and allows Dean’s fingers to work over his forehead, his jaw. And then, Dean traces his nose with one finger and, just as he reaches the tip, Cas tips his head back and nips his finger. The smile that crosses Dean’s face is shattering. How many times have he and his guide-dog played this simple game of keep-away, waiting in doctor’s offices or for the bus or half-listening to one of Pastor Jim’s homilies?

There had been more talk after that, of the “do you remember…?” and “where you there when…?” variety. It is enchanting to watch Dean realize that he had not been nearly as alone as he’d imagined himself. As a dog, Cas hadn’t always paid a lot of attention to people’s faces. Is it possible that Dean’s has always been this lovely and he just hadn’t realized it? He could watch expressions dart across Dean’s face all night. He almost does. It is nearly dawn when Dean yawns and suddenly runs out of steam. He has been this way for as long as Cas has known him: all energy and then, in a breath, exhausted. He rubs his eyes with the back of his hand. “Time’s it?” he asks around another yawn.

“I don’t know. Late?” Cas doesn’t wear a watch. He doesn’t wear anything, as Dean seems to realize when he leans his head against Cas’s shoulder. 

“Oh. No fur,” Dean remarks, already too sleepy to realize how strange that sounds. “C’n borrow some of my stuff tomorrow…”

That was his last intelligible comment before nodding off, still leaning on Cas’s shoulder. It can’t be more than a few hours later that Cas wakes in the darkness, curled around Dean on the floor. His mind goes automatically to protecting Dean, as it has for so many years. He does not worry about additional intruders—he made it clear to John Winchester that Dean was perfectly safe—but he should clean up the glass that litters the upper hallway. Dean won’t be able to see it; he’ll cut himself.

***

The next morning, Cas guides Dean into the kitchen and sets him to making breakfast while he tidies the hallway. Glass and blood, not his own, but he is glad that Dean can’t see it. It is an easy task with two hands and opposable thumbs. Cas thinks he enjoys being human again. Over breakfast (“Do you eat cereal now, or still kibble?”), they discuss how to explain the broken window, whether to make a police report.

“Loose tree limb?” Dean ventures.

“Windy night,” adds Cas. Neither of them were looking forward to trying to explain anything else.

Dean spends a few hours in the parish office, though calls are few and far between since everyone in town knows Pastor Jim is out of town. Cas follows him in and has to resist the urge to curl up at Dean’s feet. He settles into a chair instead, feeling itchy in his borrowed clothes, the sleeves and legs an inch too short. They don’t even have to talk. Just being with Dean is enough. After lunch, they walk through the garden and out into Our Lady of Angels’ cemetery. Dean tucks a hand under Cas’s elbow instead of laying a hand on his head and Cas leads him surely through the mazes of headstones and flowers. It is a pleasant and comfortable afternoon. As evening draws in, though, Cas remembers: Sam. 

He does not exactly dislike Sam—how could he? Sam seems to make Dean happy, which is all that Cas wants. But it cannot be denied that seeing them together (Sam pressing Dean up against a wall; Dean curling his leg over Sam’s back as they tumble into bed) and hearing them together (panting; moaning; a particular whimper when Sam latches onto Dean’s nipple) makes Cas want to _growl_. So it is just as well that when Cas clears the dinner table and says, “I might go for another walk,” Dean smiles and says, “Sure, let’s go.” And if he thinks about Sam waiting by the phone, Cas can’t tell.

Another long walk, falling easily into stride with each other. Dean does the dishes when they come back, and Cas takes a shower—a strangely human pleasure that he had almost forgotten about. He checks all the doors and windows while Dean is showering and then throws himself down on Dean’s bed with a satisfied huff. He’s always slept in Dean’s bed and sees no reason to change just because he’s currently in a new vessel.

“You know, you make exactly the same sound as a dog,” observes Dean, reaching over to ruffle Cas’s hair. Cas pushes up into the gesture and Dean smiles, lets his hand ease down over Cas’s skull and along his neck to shoulder. He pauses. “D’you, uh. I have. There’s extra pajamas if you want,” he says.

Dean himself is wearing boxers, like he was last night, and also a t-shirt. Cas considers. He doesn’t like clothes; after years in dog-form, they just don’t feel right. He tries to decode whether _Dean_ might want him to wear pajamas, but he’s been human all day and decoding people gets tiring, so he just asks.

“Should I wear pajamas?”

Dean blushes a little—Cas can see the skin between his freckles change and he has to resist the canine urge to lick Dean’s cheek. “No? I mean, unless you wanna.” 

“’Kay then,” Cas decides he’s done his due diligence with regard to human sensibilities. He trusts Dean to tell him if he’s doing something wrong. Instead, Dean pats the mattress next to him, like he does most nights. Then he pulls his t-shirt over his head, rolls onto his stomach, and says, “g’night Cas,” just the way he always did when Cas was a dog.

They drift toward each other in their sleep. Cas wakes up once—squirrel in a tree outside the window—and finds Dean’s back pressed against his chest. He nuzzles Dean’s neck, comforted by the familiar smell of his boy, and wraps an arm around Dean’s chest to pull him closer. Arms and hands and thumbs, he thinks sleepily: very useful.


	3. Chapter 3

Next time, when Cas wakes up, it is to early sunlight flooding through the windows. Dean is still asleep, unbothered by the light, of course. Cas is content to snuggle in behind him. He is warm, his boy is safe, and life would be perfect…except for the niggling discomfort between his legs. Dean has shifted against him in the night and Cas is vaguely aware of how his cock has thickened at the sensation. Dean wakes up hard most mornings. Cas knows this because he sleeps in Dean’s bed almost every night. Maybe that’s typical for humans. Cas can’t remember: it’s been a long time since he had a human form and angels don’t have this sort of inconvenience. Anyway, it is not…unpleasant. No, laying here against Dean’s warm, strong body, watching the way his chest moves when he breathes or the shadow of his eyelashes on his cheek. Not unpleasant at all. And he really too comfortable to do much about it, especially considering that the golden retriever bitch who lives in the field next to the cemetery would hardly be receptive to his attentions in this form. Sometimes, when Dean wakes up this way, he bites his lip and one hand slides into his boxers and…

Mmm, well…Cas shifts his chest against Dean’s back and lays his head next to Dean’s on the pillow and has nearly drifted off to sleep again when he feels Dean’s own hips hitch.

“Mornin’, Cas,” Dean’s voice is rough and sleepy and just the sound of it makes Cas’s newly-woken cock twitch. Cas freezes. Certain parts of his anatomy are more canine than anything else, but maybe if he stays absolutely still…

No such luck, not the way Dean’s senses have heightened to accommodate his diminished sight. In fact, Dean arches his back, pushing himself further against Cas’s body. It could almost just be an innocent stretching, except Cas would swear Dean _wriggles_ his ass. “Guess you really are human. Somethin’ you wanna tell me, Cas?” Dean’s tone sounds amused and when he turns his head on the pillow, he is smiling. 

“I, uhm,” Cas stutters. “It’s a purely animal reaction! That is—”

“Aww, Cassie,” Dean turns fully now, so he can run a hand through Cas’s hair. He lets his hand linger at Cas’s nape, toying with the hair the way he used to fidget with Cas’s fur when something—usually some threat to Dean—had upset his guide dog. There's something particularly sensual about Dean's clever fingers on Cas's bare neck. “I’m teasing. Happens to everyone. Should see Sam inna morning.” 

Dean’s still half asleep: warm and comfortable and inclined to let his mouth run on. Cas can see the moment when he realizes what he’s said—and, with it, remembers that he’s actually only woken up next to Sam twice. Cas gets the impression that Sam is not much of a cuddler. At any rate, the college student is diligent about leaving in time to get back for his morning classes. Dean, on the other hand, craves touch. He’s constantly patting Cas, stroking his ears. Sometimes Cas wonders if he was always this way, or if it has something to do with missing one of his five senses. Or if it has to do with being abandoned by his family. 

Dean pretends he doesn’t care; he won’t even get out of bed to see Sam off any more. But Cas knows he’s only pretending to sleep when Sam unwinds his long limbs and starts pulling on his clothes. Cas, exiled from the bedroom, always waits until the red of Sam’s taillights has faded down the rectory driveway before he noses Dean’s door open. And Dean will silently pat the mattress next to him, Cas’s signal to spring up next to him. That is joy: to be welcomed back, to curl into a ball on sheets that smell like sex and Dean, to feel his boy’s fingers rake through his fur and hear Dean’s breathing settle into sleep.

But now the thought of Sam makes Dean’s forehead crease and Cas hates that, so he tries to cheer up his boy with a lick to the cheek.

Dean looks astonished for a second, and then laughs. “Gross, Cas! That’s not how humans do it, you goofy mutt.” 

Cas adores Dean’s laugh so he licks again, right across the freckled bridge of Dean’s nose. Then the soft spot under his chin. Dean laughs, tries to fend him off. Tries to lick him back. Catches the corner of his mouth. 

Cas’s hips surge forward, pinning Dean to the bed. It’s another animal reaction; he doesn’t even think about it—just the urgent need to pin his…well, his brain _knows_ Dean’s not a bitch. It’s just this mongrel body…Cas tries to pull back, confused, but Dean’s hands close and tighten at his waist, keeping him in place. His boy is looking up at him from the pillow, cheeks flushed, mouth open, his beautiful eyes wide and sightless.

“Again,” he breathes. “Kiss me again, Cas.”

And Cas knows he doesn’t mean puppy kisses, rubbing noses. So he drops his head and presses his lips to Dean’s. He feels Dean’s mouth open; Dean’s tongue teases his. His boy’s body relaxes under him, his legs falling open, easy as any bitch. 

Cas snuffles down Dean’s throat: soap and sleep-sweat and Dean’s familiar scent, but also a hint of that spice that permeates the sheets after Sam has left. Irrationally, the thought of Sam makes him want to bite something. He would never—could never—hurt Dean, but nor can he resist the urge to set his teeth—gently, gently—onto Dean’s collarbone. Dean makes a wordless sound, all vowels, and he arches up against Cas, before flopping back to the mattress at his mercy. 

Dean whimpers when Cas licks a long stroke across his chest, and the skinwalker lifts his head to look at his boy. He’s never heard that sound from Dean before. Dean’s head lolls on the pillow, green eyes half closed, a pink flush across his skin. Keeping one eye on Dean, Cas noses a nipple, nibbles, suckles. He sees Dean’s pretty mouth open and close; no words come out. He lingers there until Dean’s nipples are peaked and swollen and the boy is shoving his head away, down. 

Fingers, finger and thumbs: Cas is reminded how marvelous they are as he strokes Dean’s flank, finds his navel, explores the faint rivulets of his abdominal muscles under his skin. Dean wriggles out of his boxers (“more, more…”). Human clothes are so silly. Cas thinks he might have said that out loud, because Dean laughs again. Cas looks down at him: long limbs summer tanned against the sheets, thickened cock. Showing your belly is a sign of trust.

Cas glances up again when he settles between Dean’s legs, where his smell is richest. His boy has propped himself up on his elbows and he’s staring down his own body like he can actually see Cas, and not just feel warm breath on his thigh.

“Please…please, Cas. I want—. Sam won’t—”

Dean seems to realize the limits of human language because he reaches down to brush hair out of Cas’s eyes. He rakes through Cas’s hair, scritches behind Cas’s left ear, cups Cas’s cheek. Dean’s thumb traces Cas’s mouth, and he giggles when Cas nips him, sighs when Cas’s tongue curls around the pad of finger. 

Dean pulls his hand away to swipe a droplet of liquid off the stomach. His cock has been dripping there, but it looks so swollen and thick and human that Cas hasn’t dared touch it. Humans are fragile, sensitive in ways Cas knows he has forgotten. Now, though, he gives Dean’s fingers a rough swipe and the essence of his boy bursts on his tongue like fireworks.

Cas _devours_ his boy. He swallows him to the root, holds his hips as they twist and pump, then lets his cock snap back to his belly as he nuzzles lower to explore Dean’s tight balls. He’s distantly aware of Dean gasping and begging, taking Pastor Jim’s lord’s name in vain (“Oh, more, more, Cas—Jesus, fuck, Cassieee!”). Dean’s knees are pressing into Cas’s ribs, holding him. Then somehow Cas has Dean’s legs over his shoulders, boy bent in half and wailing with pleasure as Cas licks into another hole. 

“Inside,” Dean moans drunkenly, nearly sliding off the bed. “Inside me,” And—oh, yes, Cas has fingers now. He has fingers and he has Dean, a sleek and unfurred body trembling beneath him.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ugh, I'm the worst! Didn't mean for this to take so long...

When Dean drifts awake, all he can see is darkness and all he can feel is Cas’s warmth and weight. He stretches, luxuriating in the feel. When he’d been younger, first come to the rectory, he’d had a weighted blanket on the advice of an occupational therapist who said being able to _feel_ boundaries that you couldn’t see was a comfort. At that age, having been shunted from therapist to doctor to teacher after his mother had died and his father had vanished, Dean hadn’t been particularly well disposed to adults and their crazy theories. The blanket _had_ helped, though. He’d had it for years. He can’t remember when he stopped needing it to sleep every night. Probably sometime after he’d gotten his first guide dog, or maybe after he’d started working with Cas. Even now, he doesn’t sleep well alone, likes to have Cas curled up at his feet. Especially on nights when he can’t persuade Sam to stay. Otherwise, he is plagued by strange, fiery nightmares that he can only half-remember in the morning.

Cas. His seeing-eye shapeshifter. The mutt that had just shown up one day on the rectory porch was really a supernatural being that sometimes is a dog? And sometimes (Dean slips his foot over Cas’s calf) sometimes is very human. It should have seemed impossible. Ridiculous. Except that Pastor Jim has always joked that Dean’s guide dog is his best friend. Except that Cas, untrained, had waltzed through the School for the Blind’s guide dog program more easily than the specially-bred German Shepherd Dean had when he first went to the school. Also, after all these years, Dean knows what Cas’s presence _feels_ like: attentive, a little fussy, affectionate. And that hasn’t changed. Nor has the way Cas sighs when he settles into bed, or the way he follows Dean, just close enough to be near without getting in the way. 

The only thing that has changed has changed is Cas’s form. Dean can’t see it, but he knows it now: broad shoulders, strong hips, inquisitive mouth—fuck, Dean came three times that he can remember. He recalls Cas possessively pulling him close just before he’d fallen asleep.

Now, fully awake, Dean can feel sunlight on his skin. Early afternoon, he estimates. He’s slept the whole morning in Cas’s arms. No nightmares.

It’s Tuesday. Pastor Jim had left right after Sunday services; he won’t be back until Wednesday. Before the Sunday night break-in and Cas’s subsequent transformation, Dean had planned to give Sam a call on Tuesday, catch him right after his poli-sci lecture, and spend the afternoon in bed. Now…well, now Dean figures there’s no reason to _completely_ change his plans. He shifts against Cas’s weight, rocking his ass up, feeling Cas’s delicious sleeping weight. Dean wriggles again, teasing, and Cas actually growls and tucks Dean more closely against him, the way he does with his stuffed fire hydrant toy when Dean tries to wake him by wiggling it from his paws. Dean works a hand between them, reaching for—

“Mmmph, Dean,” Cas twists away, sounding sleepy and reluctant.

“Hey, sleepyhead,” Dean rolls over. He can feel Cas’s gaze on him, estimates his mouth, lands a kiss half-on his cheek. Cas has always made a weird little growly sound when he’s contented; Pastor Jim says he’s the only dog who purrs. He makes it now. And then seems to realize it and pulls away. 

Dean feels Cas turn and turn back and stuff something—a soft something, an extra pillow?—between them like a barrier. “We, uhm. We probably shouldn’t.”

“Shouldn’t what?” The bed is queen-sized, not that large. Dean’s feet are still tangled with Cas’s. He remembers the animal intensity with which Cas had licked and sucked. If Cas doesn’t want more of that—well, he’s going to have to use his words. Dean won’t make it easy for him.

“Dean. I.”

“Cas—you?”

Cas takes a deep breath. “Angels don’t have. Uhm. Genitals.”

That—that was not what Dean had been expecting to hear. “What?!”

“Angels. We don’t. I mean, I’m sure you’ve seen, you know, artwork. Well. I guess maybe not. Anyway. That’s not Breughel being modest.”

“You’re—? Wait, what about being a shapeshifter?”

“I am. Or, I can. Angels can take on a variety of vessels.”

Dean thinks back. “So when you’re a dog, you’re a…dog-shaped vessel?”

“Yes.” Even know, Cas knows to answer verbally, not simply to nod. 

“And now you’re a human-shaped vessel?”

“That’s about right.”

“Only, you don’t have…?” Dean trails off. That can’t be right. Sam hadn’t been his first. He _knows_ what male arousal feels like when it’s pressed up against his ass.

Cas had been exacting even as a dog, inclined to wiping his paws and following Pastor Jim’s many rules like he could understand all their nuances (which, Dean supposed, he did). And even now, he can’t be less than precise. “I don’t have a human. Uhm. Instrument?”

Instrument? Dean is going to have to work on Cas’s vocabulary, but not until he gets to the bottom of this new mystery. He tries to figure out how to—what words will…

“Human language is hard,” Cas observes, knowing just what Dean is thinking, the way he often does regardless of his form.

“Can I touch you?” Dean asks simply. It’s the same question he used to ask everyone when he first met them, when he was young and newly-blind and trying to fill in the many blank gaps in his world. Cas had alluded to that when he’d been trying to convince Dean that he was his old friend in a new shape. Dean knows he’ll understand.

Cas doesn’t answer. But he fumbles through the sheets, finds Dean’s right hand, and guides it to his face. 

Cheekbone. The ridge of an eyesocket. A medium-sized nose. The edge of a sensitive mouth. These features are familiar now, even after just one day. Dean’s fingers find Cas’s jaw, his throat—Adam’s apple bobbing when he swallows nervously. Dean strokes his shoulder with the flat of his palm, soothing. No need to be nervous. Chest, belly. Cas twitches, ticklish or uneasy. Dean elbows the pillow out of the way, leans in for a kiss. 

“I don’t care,” he whispers. Another kiss, deeper. “I don’t care what you look like, I know what you really are.”

Cas’s cock is large and right where it is supposed to be. Soft, but long. Uncut. Thick foreskin. Thumbing the big, blunt head makes Dean’s mouth fill with spit. Pavlov’s dog. 

“Dunno what you mean,” murmurs Dean. His questing fingers find a set of round, heavy balls. “Think you’ve got all the required parts accounted for…” Fuck, he’d thought Sam was big, but now he can barely get his fingers around the base and Cas is still…

Dean palms Cas’s length. Cas whines under his breath. He’s thicker, definitely pushing himself up into Dean’s grip now, but still soft. 

“Cas, is everything—?”

“Dog,” Cas pants, and he sounds aroused out of his mind, barely able to get the words out between the open-mouthed kisses he’s pressing along Dean’s shoulders. “Dog cock. Doesn’t get thick ‘til it does. There’s uh, a, bone. God, just wanna eat you up.” 

“You have a _dog_ cock?!” Dean yelps. His fingers close involuntarily and he feels Cas jerk up into his grip. He supposes it almost makes sense—if Cas’s regular form doesn’t have a particular section, maybe he just borrows it from a previous form? Who knows how these vessels work? 

Dean can feel the question form in his mouth. It’s stupid, but he’s going to ask it anyway, because he knows Cas will tell him the truth. “What does it,” Dean’s mouth has gone dry. “What does it look like?”

“Uhm, big. It’s bigger than yours…and, yeah, will you keep—,” Cas huffs, aroused, “Just like that, yes! Red. It’s starting to push out, out of the, uhm, sheath, bet you c’n feel it...”

Dean _can_ feel it: the huge head slick on his palm, the shaft thickening alarmingly. Not just blood, but a bone, Cas had said, and sure enough, Cas’s cock is starting to jut aggressively out from his hips. It feels positively dangerous compared to the stubby little dick Dean has pressed up against Cas’s thigh.

Dean explores, fingers tracing, until he hears a muffled moan from Cas and realizes he’s been teasing. “Sorry!” he jerks his hand back from the large, pointed cockhead he’s coaxed out of Cas’s foreskin.

“No, it’s—fine. It’s good,” Cas sounds like he’d been holding his breath. He always puts Dean first and that knowledge causes something to well up in Dean’s chest. Love, he supposes.

Dean throws a leg over Cas’s back, pulls him close. It’s like they’re wrestling, rough-housing as they so often have in another form, except now Dean is shoving his hips up so Cas can feel how much he wants this. He feels the tremendous cock slide along his belly as Cas’s weight falls on him, better than any blanket. Cas is pulling away even as he licks wet kisses along Dean’s throat. “No—nnngh. Bad idea. I might. I get too rough, Dean, don’t mean to, but…”

“Don’t say no, Cas…” 

Dean feels Cas go still and he clamps his knees tighter around Cas’s hips. He knows this moment of stillness: dozens of times, Dean has determined to do something (stay out later than Pastor Jim wants, explore a new bus route, invite someone home on choir practice night) and he’s felt his guide dog go tremblingly still beside him. Once or twice, Cas had simply frozen into a stubborn canine statue and Dean had to watch the bus leave without him, or make excuses to go home because he knew Cas wasn’t going to give in. But just as often, Dean had unfurled his cane and started off on his own, only to feel Cas’s fur brush against him before he’d taken ten steps. Cas understands how often Dean hears “no,” he hates to add to the chorus.

Dean is rolling almost before he realizes it, Cas broken out of his grasp and turning him face down on the mattress. He huffs out a breath of air when the heavier man settles against his back, pressing him into the mattress. 

“Like I said, there’s a bone,” Cas breathes into his ear. “And a knot: once I’m in, I have to stay. You gotta be sure.” 

Dean feels a spike of glee: Cas is going to give in, give him what he wants. “Yes, yes,” he pants, nodding against the pillow. He struggles against Cas’s weight for a moment and gets his knees under him, spreads himself open to show how good he’s going to be. Cas growls. Prickles jump up Dean’s spine.

“It’s going to be more than Sam,” continues Cas, warningly, “more than you’ve ever had.” A nip on his thigh, broad tongue over his hole.

Dean moans, realizing what he should have known before. Cas, ever vigilant, has _seen_ him with Sam, with all the boys that came before Sam. How many times had he hastily kicked the door closed-ish without actually checking the lock? And then, at some point, when Dean had been distracted—on his knees, a cock in his mouth, or draped over someone’s lap, letting them play with his nipples--Cas had quietly nosed open the bedroom door. Maybe he’d heard Dean, heard his whimpers and wanted to make sure they were sounds of pleasure. Maybe Cas just wanted to supervise: Dean likes _big_ guys, guys he can feel even after they’ve left him, and he’d indulged, confident that if anyone had ever raised a hand to him, Cas would have made sure the jerk lost that hand.

Cas’s own new hands are firm but gentle, stroking down his back. There’s the rattle of the bedside drawer, the cool kiss of lube. Jesus, but Cas _has_ been watching, and watching carefully. “Gotta be like this,” Cas mutters, his voice sounding strained by desire, “Won’t fit, otherwise. Wish you could,” he stops, like he realizes what he’s about to say, but then continues. He and Dean don’t have any secrets, nothing they can’t say to each other. “Wish you could see yourself.”

Dean closes his eyes. He doesn’t think like that anymore, not much. Doesn’t wonder about _if only_ or _what if_. Pastor Jim has given him purpose and Cas has given him freedom and there’s not much more that Dean allows himself to want. Besides, he almost can see himself: can sense the strong span of his shoulders when Cas kneads them, the bow of his hips when Cas pulls him to his hands and knees. Like a dog, Dean thinks: _won’t fit otherwise_. He bites his bottom lip—swollen, from kissing, and Dean can almost see that, too. Cas pushes a pillow underneath him. Dean’s breath catches when it pushes his own dick up against his belly: he’s so swollen, but it’s nothing compared to the length of Cas’s animal cock, which he feels against his thigh, against the curve of his ass, against his tight, needy hole. 

Dean melts when the head of Cas’s mutant dick reaches his prostate. One moment his gasping against the stretch, legs trembling, digging his hands into the bedclothes to arch back into it— good, good but _so_ much, Cas was right: more than he’s ever had. The next second, his arms have turned to jelly and the only thing holding him up is Cas’s arm looped around his hips. His thighs are slick, his whole body shaking. Dean hears himself _mewling_; there’s no other way to describe the sweet, whimpery sounds Cas is pushing out of him. Because Cas is still moving, hips grinding, every breath a faint growl. 

Dean’s mind clears, the calm after the storm, his desire temporarily slaked, and he gets one elbow under him. Cas’s growl deepens and Dean can feel a hint of teeth on his shoulder. “Easy, boy, not goin’ anywhere—just gotta see…”

Dean doesn’t mean _see_ literally, of course. But gingerly, he slides a hand behind his own leaking cock to his hole, slick and stretched. Even after Cas’s fingers and his tongue, even relaxed from orgasming and sleep, Dean can hardly believe he’s taken Cas's massive shaft into his body. For a moment Dean feels a tingling in his toes and blood pounding in his ears and he thinks he might come again just from the knowledge of how full he is. And there’s more, so much more: Dean palms the bunched up skin of Cas’s sheath. He breathes, breathes, concentrates on being open, on taking Cas in. The orgasm-edge fades to warm pleasure. Dean twists his wrist, fingers touching the heavy sway of Cas’s furry balls.

Cas’s arm tightens around Dean, pulling him in. Dean groans—damn, so possessive, and it just makes him want to drop to his belly like a subdued little Chihuahua and let Cas have his way. “Yeaah, show me. Show me, Cas. What’s good?” 

Cas’s other hand between Dean’s shoulders, forcing him down, angling his ass. Dean goes with it, pleasure making him flexible. He wedges a hand under himself to play with his own nipples. Dean imagines what it must look like: the tangle of sheets; his perky little nipples; his dick, already thickening again; Cas’ muscled thighs lined up behind his own. And then. Dean has to touch it to be sure, digging his elbow into the mattress to withstand Cas’s thrusts so he can free up a shaky hand and lay it against his belly. Yes, yes—not just his imagination. He can feel it: a bone, Cas had said, just like a dog’s cock. 

“Oh, fuck, oh, fuck. Cas!” Dean flails for a second, then finds Castiel’s hand, fingers pressing bruises into his hip, and tugs until Cas releases him. Dean presses the palm to his low belly. “Is that…is that you?”

“Yeah. In so deep, Dean. Taking me so good,” Cas’s voice sounds distant, strained, and Dean wonders if he’s holding himself back, trying to be gentle. The thought makes him clench involuntarily for a moment, newly aware of how firm and thick Cas is.

“Noo, no,” Cas nuzzles his shoulder, licks his throat. “Relax, Dean, gotta stay open for me. Knot’s coming.” Cas’s palm starts working in circles, massaging Dean’s belly, his hips relentlessly pushing forward another inch, another. Dean can feel the gently pointed cockhead advancing under his fingertips.

“Meant to breed, can’t stop it,” Cas mutters. “These dog, uhm…”

“Instruments?” gasps Dean, and Cas nips his ear, recognizing the joke. 

“Yeah. Made to, to hold a bitch open and breed.”

“Who you callin’ a bitch, jerk?” Dean bucks his hips back, feeling punchy, almost hysterical. Held open. Bred. Fuck. He means it as another joke, but something challenging in his tone, or the sudden twist of his hips ignites something in Cas. A new tenor of growl, deeper and lower. Something in the sound makes Dean’s spine bow automatically and Cas’s last inches slide in so suddenly that Dean is orgasming almost before he realizes that he’s taken it all.

Cas pounds him through it, thrusts growing short and hard. His heavy balls smack against Dean’s. Dean can feel the long, curved dick in his belly and now he can feel something else: Cas growing even thicker, Cas making his impossibly taut hole stretch again. The knot.

“Oh, oh, God, oh Cas, I can’t—I need it. It’s too…Oh, fuck, don’t stop…” Dean is vaguely aware that his moaning doesn’t make any sense. He yelps each time the knot pulls out and grunts each time Cas forces it back in and it’s so big he feels like his hips might crack and he still wants more. Cas had warned him it would be rough, animalistic. He hadn’t said it would be so good.

Cas is growling savagely, grinding his balls against Dean’s ass at the end of each thrust, each one shorter than the last until he can’t pull out at all, his whole swollen knot throbbing against Dean’s prostate. He pulls twice, hard enough that Dean’s hips sway, and then he grunts: “That’s it. We’re tied.” Dean can feel himself spasming around the thickness uncontrollably, his hips writhing under Cas as the bigger man stills inside him. Cas nips Dean’s shoulder when he starts to come, his body shoving Dean’s into the mattress because they’re tied now, knotted. They’re close enough that Dean can feel Cas’s balls against the sensitive skin of his inner thigh. They’re twitching, pumping: filling him. The bitch.

Dean would swear he could feel it: Cas’s hot cum, pooling inside him, no place to go with the big knot stuffing him.

Sam loves it when Dean rides him; he likes being able to tease Dean’s nipples and guide his hips. “Love watchin you fall apart,” he’d murmured once, about as romantic as he ever gets. But Dean can’t watch Sam; he exists in a state of ticklish anticipation, trying to divine where Sam will touch him next. So it’s better after, when Sam tumbles him down to the bed and wraps his long limbs around Dean and whispers things that he can’t tell his girlfriend. Dean ha that now: Cas’s weight on him, in him, boundaries he doesn’t need to see.

When Cas rolls to his side with a satisfied groan, he pulls Dean with him. They settle together, nested like spoons, Cas’s hand settling on Dean’s belly, like he could feel the knot throbbing inside. Dean can certainly feel it: every time Cas shifts, there’s a distinct pull inside Dean. Even when he’s still, there’s a pulsing under Dean’s skin, between his tightly stretched hole and his own soft cock. He thinks his belly is actually rounding out a little, but he can’t tell if that is because of Cas’s huge dick or what it is pumping into him. 

“Cas?”

“Mmmnnn?” Cas nuzzles Dean’s ear.

“Cas—how long…?”

“Dunno. Maybe half an hour? Longer?” Cas’s voice sounds amused. “Haven’t done it like this before.”

“No, I mean. In this form. How long can you stay like this? Like—human?”

Cas licks Dean’s shoulder, where it’s tender from his teeth. “I can stay like this as long as I need to. As long as this form serves my mission.”

“What’s your mission?”

“You are, Dean. Keeping you safe. Safe and happy.”

Dean closes his eyes.


End file.
